


The Cupbearer

by sevenswells



Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Alexandre Dumas Made Me Do It, Greek Mythology - Freeform, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Statue Porn, agalmatophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 22:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1485589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenswells/pseuds/sevenswells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 15-year-old Athos (known then as Olivier de la Fère) explores his sexuality, at a time when magazines with photos of naked men didn't exist.</p><p>Translation into русский язык by <a href="http://krezh12.tumblr.com">krezh12</a> available: <a href="http://ficbook.net/readfic/1970046">http://ficbook.net/readfic/1970046</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cupbearer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breathtaken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/gifts).



> This may seem like crack, but it's actual canon from Dumas' Twenty Years After, where Athos admits to d'Artagnan that he fell in love with a Greek statue when he was 15: "I remember that at the age of Raoul I had become amorous of a Greek statue that the good King Henry IV had given to my father, and that I thought I should become insane with grief when they told me that the story of Pygmalion was only a fable.".
> 
> What I found interesting in that story is that neither the subject nor even the gender of the statue was defined, so I made the statue male, and I wanted to explore this idea of Athos discovering his sexual preferences with that statue. I chose Ganymede as the subject because Zeus/Ganymede is the epitome of the homosexual relationship in ancient times, and also because Ganymede's function as a cupbearer to me is sort of a foreshadowing of Athos' problems with alcohol (and in the end, it all has to do with love, it's very symbolical).
> 
> All my thanks to the kind and lovely [breathtaken](http://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken/) for the huge amount of work she put into the beta-reading, and in effect saving this fic from being a complete mess; all remaining mistakes are mine

When Athos was fifteen and his name was still Olivier de la Fère, the good King Henry gave his father a present.

Olivier saw the carriage arriving from the study window, during his Philosophy lesson with his tutor Master Froissart. Commotion amongst the servants of the manor followed, growing frantic when the visitor's livery was identified as royal. Soon, a small gathering of strong men formed in the courtyard to help unload a mysterious heavy crate from the back of the carriage, while gawping women stood and watched. Then Olivier heard his father the Comte calling, "Come and see, Master Froissart, and bring Olivier with you." 

He followed his tutor to the drawing room, where they entered just as the King's envoys were unveiling the gift. The sight of it mesmerized the adolescent instantly.

There stood a life-size marble statue of a young man in the nude, his raised arm nonchalantly holding a wine cup, one leg bent and relaxed, the other straight, making his hipbones protrude in sinuous curves and softly wrinkling his flanks and stomach muscles. Out of a sudden self-consciousness, Olivier stopped his eyes from remaining too long on the man's modestly-proportioned yet detailed sex, and preferred to let them roam over the exquisitely defined muscles of his arms and chest. The statue's face, framed by soft locks of hair falling on his brow, curling down over his ears and onto the nape of his neck, was the most arresting sight of all: noble and regular features, forming an expression that could best be described as _inviting_ , with heavy-lidded eyes staring directly at the one he was offering the cup to -- staring at Olivier -- and the barest hint of a smile on his bow-shaped lips. 

"How beautiful!" The Comte exclaimed. "That would be Ganymede, wouldn't it? Do you concur, Master Froissart?"

Master Jean-Nicolas Froissart, a blonde gangly man with an intellectual's brow, spectacles firmly in place, stepped forward, examining the statue with an awe that seemed to please the Comte.

"Yes, and a rarity, since Zeus as an eagle is not included in the composition -- Ganymede is not often shown all by himself," Froissart rambled. "And judging from his features, we might even be in the presence of Antinous posing as Ganymede, although it would take someone who's more of an expert than me to prove it... Beautiful indeed, Monsieur le Comte."

"What do you think, Olivier?"

His father's question snapped Olivier out of his ravenous contemplation of the statue before him and left him scrambling for words for a second.

"I think it shows our good King's generosity with his friends, father," he managed, for the benefit of the King's envoys, since he deduced that was probably what was expected of him. "Such a rare and handsome gift honours our home."

His father came over to him and squeezed his shoulder, letting him know he'd done well.

"Doesn't it just," the Comte said, eyes lighting once again on the statue.

\----

Back in the study, Olivier thought long and hard, turning the words around in his head to formulate as inconspicuous a question as possible for his tutor, and came up with, "I don't think you've taught me about Ganymede before, have you, Master?"

"Haven't I?" His tutor replied distractedly. "Would you like to know more?"

Olivier did not want to appear too eager, so he waited until his tutor's attention was on him again before giving a simple nod. 

"Was it the statue that intrigued you, young monsieur?"

His breath caught, but Master Froissart couldn't possibly know about the violent feelings that the statue had ignited in him, so he nodded again, refusing to let any of it show.

Froissart gave it a little consideration, then he clapped shut the book he was holding and put his spectacles away. 

"Well... there are mentions of the myth of Ganymede in Ovid's Metamorphoses, maybe you can read it. It'll be good practice for your Latin -- I'll lend it to you. Although don't tell your father it came from me, there are quite a few racy bits in that book, if you see what I mean; but now you're old enough for that, eh? The, ah. The story of Ganymede is one of a beautiful young boy swept away by Zeus in the form of an eagle, who took him to Mount Olympus and made him the cupbearer of the gods."

The story resonated with him, fascinating Olivier just as much as the statue itself had. He could sense a mystery was hidden there, something mystical, occult... forbidden.

Something was wrong. His normally loquacious teacher was being unusually sparing with the details, and wasn't quite meeting his eyes. Had he guessed something of Olivier's unusual interest? Olivier's heart beat faster and faster, panic rising in his throat. _Tread lightly. Lighter._ He had to tread lighter. 

"Anything..." he choked a bit -- damn it -- started again, keeping his tone carefully casual. "Anything else? Any other mentions, elsewhere?"

For a few seconds that passed like hours, his tutor hesitated; then looked like he'd come to a decision.

"Ganymede is also mentioned in Plato's Symposium, which it's high time you read anyway. So, yes, put that on your list too. And... if you really wish to go further and know more, you can also read Plato's Phaedrus. You father owns the complete works, if I'm not mistaken; look them up in the library."

Olivier nodded a third time, for himself. He definitely would.

\----

He read the passage again:

"And as this intimacy continues and the lover comes near and touches the beloved in the gymnasia and in their general intercourse, then the fountain of that stream which Zeus, when he was in love with Ganymede, called “desire” flows copiously upon the lover; and some of it flows into him, and some, when he is filled, overflows outside; and just as the wind or an echo rebounds from smooth, hard surfaces and returns whence it came, so the stream of beauty passes back into the beautiful one through the eyes, the natural inlet to the soul, where it reanimates the passages of the feathers, waters them and makes the feathers begin to grow, filling the soul of the loved one with love."

The words had a powerful effect on him, making him ache and heat up all over, a new and weird sensation he couldn't quite define. _Intercourse. Filled. Overflows. Beloved._ Beloved. Zeus _in love_ with Ganymede.

He understood why Master Froissart hadn't wanted to be the one to say it, why he'd wanted him to find out by himself, which turned it an even bigger, dirtier secret, feeding his aching and empty yearning in a loop. This was not like the games he'd played with the servants' children when he was a child himself -- mere instincts, and animal curiosity. This was about _love_ , and, young as he was, he knew nothing of it. Was love really possible between two men? Socrates seemed to think so, in the most natural way in the world. In the Symposium he even stated that there were different ways of loving other men; physical love, and spiritual love, and he argued that Zeus loved Ganymede the spiritual way.

Did Master Froissart know this? Of course he did. The thought both unsettled Olivier and made him impossibly hotter, that they shared this knowledge now and next time he would see him, Master Froissart would know Olivier knew. Would they talk about it? Somehow Olivier didn't think they would. It would hang unsaid between them, surfacing from time to time in looks and half-formed words.

It was bad enough reading Ovid's Metamorphoses the day before, with the racy bits turning out to be just as racy as Master Froissart had promised -- especially Pygmalion's story1, with images that still burned in the back of Olivier's impressionable mind, of ivory coming to life, yielding to touch, gradually losing its hardness until a beating pulse was finally felt under probing, loving fingers. Reading this passage in Phaedrus, though, had robbed him of any ability to sleep.  
He closed the book, quieted his breathing and listened for a while; he concluded it had to be quite late in the night and no one but him was awake in the manor.

Maybe he could go and see the statue again. Just as the thought formed in his mind, the need to go _right now_ became nearly unbearable.  
He walked the corridors of the manor in a trance, his steps leading him to his father's study where the statue had been placed. The night was fully lit by the moon shining outside the windows, and he could see well enough in the darkness without having to light a candle. 

He felt feverish; the material of his nightgown was clinging to his clammy skin, and the temperature didn't go down when he saw Ganymede again. In the state he was in, the cool marble of the statue glowing white in the twilight was a call, an oasis, drawing him near. 

Up close, he studied the statue's handsome face, wondering if what he felt was spiritual love, just as Zeus felt for Ganymede.

He'd had a dream the previous night, about the eagle and the boy. He'd dreamt of the struggle between them, almost feeling the furious slide of slick feathers against skin, the pinch of nubile limbs seized by a predator's talons. In turn, he'd been Ganymede, feeling the boy's fear and confusion, his despair to escape the king of the gods in this monstrous form he couldn't recognize; and he'd been Zeus, all-powerful, with want as sharp as a blade, intent on taking his prey and tolerating no resistance.

He'd woken up in a pool of his own sweat, his sex stiff between his legs, and not knowing what to do with it. In the end, he'd just lain in the dark for what felt like hours, waiting for the want and shame to go away.

Love couldn't be so base. Could it? 

He reached out with his fingers, meeting cold marble. He let them skirt over the most prominent features of the statue's face, his nose, his chin, his cheekbones. There. Nothing dirty about it. He wouldn't go lower, no need; he was only admiring the statue's beauty through touch. 

One index finger touched his lips, those beautiful bow-shaped lips, entirely by accident, making Olivier wonder, what if I kissed him? Just a kiss, nothing more, then he would be satisfied, his thirst quenched. There was, poets said, communion in a kiss. A kiss was pure, it was chaste, it was acceptable. Olivier stepped forward, so close now that he could feel the chill coming from the marble, such a shocking contrast to the furnace stoked within him. He swallowed, licked his dry lips; he felt parched. His face was now only a breath away from the statue's, and with a shuddering sigh, he closed the distance, letting his eyes fall shut as his lips met the statue's. 

He tasted an acidic, mineral tang from the marble, and as he moved to try to fit his lips better against the sculpted stone, his nipples, hard-peaked through his night gown, brushed against the statue's torso, causing him to gasp loudly. The freezing cold, almost painful sensation sent desire cascading through his body, his prick growing fully hard, straining, tenting his nightgown and touching the statue's own sex through the thin fabric. 

Betrayed by his body, Olivier's resolve snapped.

His arms went of their own accord around the statue's neck, as he molded his hot-blooded, soft body flush against that cold hard one, the flimsy material of his nightgown providing next to no protection. He hissed, then whimpered, burning with the chill of the marble and his own fever both; he rested his forehead against the statue's in hope of cooling down. With a trembling hand, he explored the body against his, its curves and planes, until he reached down, fondling the sex that wouldn't reciprocate his desire and remain unmoved. With the tip of one finger, he felt the delicate indentation at the head, the barely defined, covered shape of the glans with its soft ridges; he traced the shaft, thick and short; followed the whorls of the sculpted pubic hair that were so finely crafted they felt almost real. Then, with that same hand, he cupped himself through his nightgown without thinking, just to find some relief. It felt so good he groaned out loud, but it wasn't enough. 

He lifted the hem of the garment and held it in his mouth, out of the way. He looked down to find his penis jutting out, foreskin retracted to reveal a shiny pink head. Acting on instinct, he took his prick in hand and pressed it to the statue's sex again. If the linen hadn't muffled his noises, he would have woken the whole manor up with the whine that escaped him then. 

At the sudden thought of being discovered like this by the servants, by his family -- hard and half-naked, defiling the King's gift to his father -- Olivier's sex twitched and leapt in his hand. He gave it a squeeze, trying to keep it from getting too excited, but the effect it had was entirely contrary to what he intended. He squeezed again, and again, started moving his fist along the shaft, enjoying the tightness of it. Fluid began to pearl and trickle from the tip. His breath was coming in short gasps, impeded by the bunched-up material clogging his mouth; he felt like he was suffocating, becoming light-headed with pleasure and lack of air. Drugged with sensation, he looked into the eyes of stone and read love there, steady, perfect and eternal. When the building pleasure in his loins finally exploded into climax, making him spend his seed on the statue's underbelly, white on marble white, he kissed his lover again, feeling such gratitude in his heart that he began to believe the lips under his were not so cold anymore, and had almost come to life. 

Afterwards, dedicated and tender, he wiped the statue's body clean with his nightgown, soggy with saliva and sweat, and gave the cupbearer one last kiss before going back to bed.

Later on, when Olivier learned that Pygmalion's miracle was only a myth, his heart broke, well and truly, for the very first time.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Pygmalion was a Greek sculptor who fell in love with a statue he'd created and Venus/Aphrodite, the goddess of love, granted Pygmalion's wish of having his statue come to life
> 
> Here's the passage from Book X of Ovid's Metamorphoses, I couldn't work it in the fic but I find it so sensual and beautiful and I really wanted to share it with you: "The day of Venus's festival came, celebrated throughout Cyprus, and heifers, their curved horns gilded, fell, to the blow on their snowy neck. The incense was smoking, when Pygmalion, having made his offering, stood by the altar, and said, shyly: "If you can grant all things, you gods, I wish as a bride to have..." and not daring to say "the girl of ivory" he said "one like my ivory girl."
> 
> Golden Venus, for she herself was present at the festival, knew what the prayer meant, and as a sign of the gods' fondness for him, the flame flared three times, and shook its crown in the air. When he returned, he sought out the image of his girl, and leaning over the couch, kissed her. She felt warm: he pressed his lips to her again, and also touched her breast with his hand. The ivory yielded to his touch, and lost its hardness, altering under his fingers, as the bees’ wax of Hymettus softens in the sun, and is moulded, under the thumb, into many forms, made usable by use. The lover is stupefied, and joyful, but uncertain, and afraid he is wrong, reaffirms the fulfilment of his wishes, with his hand, again, and again.
> 
> It was flesh! The pulse throbbed under his thumb. Then the hero, of Paphos, was indeed overfull of words with which to thank Venus, and still pressed his mouth against a mouth that was not merely a likeness. The girl felt the kisses he gave, blushed, and, raising her bashful eyes to the light, saw both her lover and the sky."


End file.
